them. They were prison bars for a country.
Fifteen miles to the west and nineteen to the east, the fence ended. To have extended it farther in either direction would have cost more than a four-lane interstate. To the west rose three mountain ranges, one after the other, desert peaks scarred by eons of harsh winds and temperatures that hit a hundred and forty degrees at noon. The Chinati Mountains, the Cuesta del Burro, and the Sierra Vieja were no respecters of borders. They raked the sky with defiant glee. There were no roads, nor towns, nor water, nor any chance of crossing the border and surviving.
To the east stretched the region known as the Big Bend, two hundred miles of caverns and forest and some of the wildest territory either country still possessed. Every now and then a wildcat wandered into Ojinaga, usually in the high drought of summer, on the prowl for a stray pet.
Not even the human traffickers would dare risk becoming lost in those harsh terrains. Which was why Ojinaga remained an island of relative safety, a haven in the middle of Mexico’s lost decade.
The people of Chihuahua state were very humble. It was their nature to be respectful of their giant neighbor to the north. Life in much of Chihuahua was backdated twenty years. Many families still did not have cars. There was none of the cross-border hostility that marred relations in other areas. Before the troubles, if one of their kids decided to leave town, north was where they went. North to a better life.
Back when the fence went up, most OJ locals had been baffled. What was their big neighbor to the north so afraid of? It was not like Mexicans were going to walk across the Rio Grande and start a war.
But no one asked those questions anymore.
Until just six or seven years ago, drugs remained a problem north of the border. This was what fueled the resentment, how the Americans blamed Mexico when the Ojinaga locals were innocent bystanders. But this was no longer true. Now, the drug problem was everywhere. Kids as young as nine were using. In towns like Ojinaga, previously the worst trouble a teenager might find was drinking mescal. Today, the tragedy scarred far too many families and cost too many young lives.
Sofia recognized the American officer on duty in her lane. When she had started her business five years earlier, she had known some of the men and women by name. She could ask about their families. She had spoken at several of their churches in Presidio, seeking sponsorship for the orphanage. All this was gone now. The border guards were governed by new rules of engagement. All foreigners were treated as potential hostiles. Sofia endured the border inspections because she had to.
Sofia crossed the Rio Grande, followed by the church group. The drought had reduced the river to a narrow stream. The mudflats on both banks were bone white. A flank of high cane rustled in the hot wind.
She pulled into the inspection bay and opened all of her van’s doors and handed over the manifests. She purchased many of the surgical supplies in the U.S. because she could be more certain of sterility. She supplied hospitals and private clinics that were willing to pay almost three times the cost of the same equipment from a Mexican distributor. Sofia did not survive because she was the cheapest. Her business was built on trust.
The church’s rented truck pulled into the next bay. The driver ran a moving company in Odessa and used a corner of his warehouse as a staging area for local donations. Friends like these formed the orphanage’s last remaining lifeline. Harold had started the orphanage with money from selling his business. But twenty years and a recession later, The Three Keys clung to life by the slimmest of margins.
When the inspection ended, they linked up and headed south. Eight miles later, she turned off the highway and took the rutted road toward the orphanage. Sofia sent up a silent prayer that Simon was already gone. Erasing the dread and
Fifteen miles to the west and nineteen to the east, the fence ended. To have extended it farther in either direction would have cost more than a four-lane interstate. To the west rose three mountain ranges, one after the other, desert peaks scarred by eons of harsh winds and temperatures that hit a hundred and forty degrees at noon. The Chinati Mountains, the Cuesta del Burro, and the Sierra Vieja were no respecters of borders. They raked the sky with defiant glee. There were no roads, nor towns, nor water, nor any chance of crossing the border and surviving.
To the east stretched the region known as the Big Bend, two hundred miles of caverns and forest and some of the wildest territory either country still possessed. Every now and then a wildcat wandered into Ojinaga, usually in the high drought of summer, on the prowl for a stray pet.
Not even the human traffickers would dare risk becoming lost in those harsh terrains. Which was why Ojinaga remained an island of relative safety, a haven in the middle of Mexico’s lost decade.
The people of Chihuahua state were very humble. It was their nature to be respectful of their giant neighbor to the north. Life in much of Chihuahua was backdated twenty years. Many families still did not have cars. There was none of the cross-border hostility that marred relations in other areas. Before the troubles, if one of their kids decided to leave town, north was where they went. North to a better life.
Back when the fence went up, most OJ locals had been baffled. What was their big neighbor to the north so afraid of? It was not like Mexicans were going to walk across the Rio Grande and start a war.
But no one asked those questions anymore.
Until just six or seven years ago, drugs remained a problem north of the border. This was what fueled the resentment, how the Americans blamed Mexico when the Ojinaga locals were innocent bystanders. But this was no longer true. Now, the drug problem was everywhere. Kids as young as nine were using. In towns like Ojinaga, previously the worst trouble a teenager might find was drinking mescal. Today, the tragedy scarred far too many families and cost too many young lives.
Sofia recognized the American officer on duty in her lane. When she had started her business five years earlier, she had known some of the men and women by name. She could ask about their families. She had spoken at several of their churches in Presidio, seeking sponsorship for the orphanage. All this was gone now. The border guards were governed by new rules of engagement. All foreigners were treated as potential hostiles. Sofia endured the border inspections because she had to.
Sofia crossed the Rio Grande, followed by the church group. The drought had reduced the river to a narrow stream. The mudflats on both banks were bone white. A flank of high cane rustled in the hot wind.
She pulled into the inspection bay and opened all of her van’s doors and handed over the manifests. She purchased many of the surgical supplies in the U.S. because she could be more certain of sterility. She supplied hospitals and private clinics that were willing to pay almost three times the cost of the same equipment from a Mexican distributor. Sofia did not survive because she was the cheapest. Her business was built on trust.
The church’s rented truck pulled into the next bay. The driver ran a moving company in Odessa and used a corner of his warehouse as a staging area for local donations. Friends like these formed the orphanage’s last remaining lifeline. Harold had started the orphanage with money from selling his business. But twenty years and a recession later, The Three Keys clung to life by the slimmest of margins.
When the inspection ended, they linked up and headed south. Eight miles later, she turned off the highway and took the rutted road toward the orphanage. Sofia sent up a silent prayer that Simon was already gone. Erasing the dread and
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